


Pragma

by I_Shouldnt_Be_Here



Series: Love is known as... [6]
Category: Shubh Mangal Zyada Saavdhan (2020)
Genre: Angst, Based on the types of love found in ancient Greek literature, Drama, Heavy Angst, Multi, Pragma is practical love founded on reason or duty, Romance, author has no regrets, author wrote this instead of sleeping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-01
Updated: 2020-07-01
Packaged: 2021-03-04 19:34:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,633
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25021738
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/I_Shouldnt_Be_Here/pseuds/I_Shouldnt_Be_Here
Summary: Aman is conflicted between his duty towards his parents and his commitment to Kartik. He wants to be noble hero who sacrifices everything for their parents but he's human after all. Sometimes his life felt like an enormous exercise in bargaining.
Relationships: Kartik Singh/Aman Tripathi
Series: Love is known as... [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1764058
Comments: 18
Kudos: 21





	Pragma

**Author's Note:**

> Enjoy!

“Udhar dining table par chai rakhi hai. Pi lena” Aman announced.

_ (There’s tea on that table.) _

She tuned out Aman’s words, texting someone on her phone. Her back was turned towards Aman, giving him a view of milky white shoulder blades above her low cut kameez. A green dupatta was strewn haphazardly around her shoulders, trailing down in zig zag folds to meet the starched white bedsheet.

Aman approached her from behind and gently touched her exposed shoulder blade. Her shoulder was warm but not  _ warm. _

His touch seemed to startle her. She shook her head and immediately hid the screen from Aman. Aman looked away, resignation settling on his face.

The small bumps of her spine moved for a second until she turned towards Aman with an overly-peppy expression. Eyes shining too bright, smile a little too wide to be genuine.

“Kya hua, Aman?” She wrapped her arms around him in a petulant display of affection.

_ (What happened, Aman?) _

He turned his chin sideward. Looking at her enthusiasm physically  _ hurt. _

“Bas yahi kehna thha, table par chai rakhi hai. Pi lena, maine banayi hai.” He said.

_ (Just wanted to tell you, there’s tea on the table. Have it, I’ve made it for you.) _

“Kitne considerate pati ho yaar.” She kissed his stubbled cheek.

_ (You’re such a considerate husband.) _

Feeling her soft cheek against his skin put him off. Immediately his mind compared it against Kartik’s. His rough stubble and angled cheekbone.

Kusum left the room to drink tea. He held his head and silent screams let forth inside.

_ Kartik. Kartik. Kartik. _

All his thoughts seemed to be occupied with Kartik these days. Aman knew that he was just a fifteen minute motorcycle ride away, but he might as well have lived on the surface of the moon with the amount of distance between them.

…

_ “Kiss me. So hard taaki mai khud ko bhul jaaon.” Aman said. _ _  
_ _ (Kiss me, so hard that I forget myself.)  _

_ “Toh yahan khud ko bhoolne ke liye aate ho?” _

_ (So you come here to forget yourself?) _

_ “Itne sawaal mat pooch yaar.” Aman reached forward to capture his lips.  _

_ (Don’t ask so many questions.) _

_ “Theek hai.” Kartik said impassively. _

_ (Alright.) _

_ The very same lips earlier used to ignite flames of desire within him. Now his kiss tasted hollow and bone-dry.  _

_ Aman went through the motions of kissing him. He could only feel mouths moving mechanically. His chest clenched involuntarily, not with anticipation or desire, but with an overarching sense of his personal space being invaded even though Aman was the one initiating. _

_ He almost felt disgusted with himself after seeing Kartik lying on the bed, head turned to the side, taking him without complaint. Not a single sound passed through his lips. His arms splayed on the bed, not bothering to hold Aman’s waist or announce his pain. _

_ Aman went back home and emptied his guts over the toilet seat.  _

_ Once the viscerality of that reaction passed, he felt like he had taken advantage of Kartik. _

_ … _

Both of them sat together on the balcony. Aman stared at the bottom of the cup of tea. He drank his without milk, so he could see black tea dust sloshing against the white ceramic interior of the cup.

His gaze shifted to Kusum, a thick segment of her wavy hair swayed gently with the wind, slicing the early evening sky into a distorted triangle below her left ear.

A few yellowed houseplants drooped and rocked listlessly, contrasting against the white wall. 

All of that movement unsettled Aman, pushing him to the brink of nausea. It reminded him of how much of a floating, rootless piece of driftwood he was. 

He thought that he could have both Kartik’s affection and his parents’ acceptance by marrying Kusum, but all he felt these days was suffocating  _ strandedness _ .

As if he was caught between two shores.

He had been married for six months. The last time he went to Kartik’s place was two weeks ago.

_ It was our place.  _

_ It was OUR place.  _

_ It was OUR PLACE. _

Kusum suddenly put her arms around Aman’s neck. It felt jarring to have his personal space invaded. The shock faded away, replaced with a certain resignation. He had to maintain some basic level of human contact with his wife. 

“Andar aao na.” She said seductively.

_ (Let’s go inside.) _

Aman felt smaller, as if his lack of  _ everything _ physically compressed him into a soundless small child. He felt a sharp, stinging pain in his throat and behind his head. He knew those were the signals that he was about to cry. He knew he could control his tears, but doing that robbed him of his voice. Talking was physically impossible when it felt like he had an iceberg jammed in his windpipe.

During this internal tussle with his scratched-up throat, he did not notice that he had been led inside the bedroom.

Kusum reached upward to kiss him.

…

Kusum lied down on the bed naked and guided Aman towards her chest.

Her chest felt pale, doughy, soft and  _ wrong. _

His mind had already walked out of his body, leaving him as a performing, empty shell. His mind was still with Kartik.

He clenched his eyelids shut and pretended to like her touch. He felt rising and falling waves of disgust.

Disgust that he had actually gotten an erection.

“Okay I want to stop.” Kusum said woodenly.

“Why?” Aman asked. Kusum turned her face to the side and looked downward.

“Your body and mind  _ separated.  _ It felt like I was with somebody else.” She said.

Aman rushed to the bathroom. He relieved himself of his erection by thinking about Kartik. 

The curve of his hip and the dip between his collarbones. 

How light hitting differently would show up on his skin either in a sandalwood or a honey hue. And how darkness would wash over his skin as a light brown echo of his own.

Half an hour later, he returned to sleep on the cold side of the bed. 

The next morning, he left breakfast on the table for Kusum. Bread-omelette and chai.

... 

It had been six months but Aman still hadn’t gotten used to the shininess and newness of his bike. He remembered Kartik chiding him to get the self-start repaired. 

Kusum often sat on it, holding his shoulders from behind. She sat swinging her legs sideways on the days she wore a skirt or a sari, pitching all her weight to one side.

Aman had to work harder to balance the bike this way. Kusum sitting like that also felt  _ different _ , safer because her arms around his shoulders didn’t remind him of Kartik anymore in that position. The lonely, dusty Delhi highways at night almost did _ not  _ remind him of Kartik these days.

He came back from work, carrying a large bag of vegetables. He dumped them inside the fridge haphazardly.

His father had told him that the tides of sadness would hit repeatedly, getting weaker each time. Compromises and bargains were the key.

His breakfast-and-vegetable bargains. 

Her bedroom-and-absent-husband compromises. 

After quite a few months, it had almost become a game. A tedious one, but a game nonetheless. Kartik also seemed to be warming up to him but he was unsure. He seemed to be going out and meeting new people.

With time, maybe he could even learn how to love Kusum. Not the fireworks and sparks flying kind of love he had with Kartik, but a more sedate, controlled, mature version of that.

The tides of sadness were getting slowly replaced by desolation. Aman hoped he could cultivate a tendril of understanding in this newly-emptied space. 

Kusum was trying her best too. She was facing problems with Rakesh, but didn’t drag him into her issues.

But, somewhere, Aman knew that these thoughts were only stories he told himself. Stories which had a strong basis in his father’s robust lies and his mother’s syrupy, pliant convictions. His mind and body still felt like they were ripping apart into two separate halves. Especially in the bedroom.

He walked towards the dining table. There were a couple of rotis, a sabzi and dal kept covered under white ceramic lids. (Some random relative had gifted them a dinner set for their wedding.) His phone beeped.

_ Message from Kusum: Khaana kha lena. Aaj maine banaya hai. Abhi bahar hun. Aate-aate dair ho jayegi. Mere liye mat rukna. Akele khaa lo. _

_ (Eat your food. I’ve made it today. I’m outside right now. Will be late when I return. Don’t wait for me.) _

Aman gave a half-smile at her attempt to negotiate. He took a bite of the amoeba-shaped roti and proceeded to adjust the level of salt in the sabzi.

The next morning, he found his arms around Kusum’s soft, thin ones. They felt different. His stubble poked the skin on her neck. He got up from bed and put a pillow in her arms which she immediately cuddled against.

Another half smile slipped out from the corners of his mouth. Kusum slept like a koala.

…

Another Saturday evening rolled by. Aman stared into the dregs of tea sloshing about in the cup. 

He thought he heard the doorbell ring.

Kusum stood with her elbows resting in the concrete balcony wall. He noticed her, really  _ noticed  _ her after quite a while because she was away from home for most of the day, looking for a job or just roaming about on the streets.

Maybe he could exchange Kartik’s dimples for the way the sunlight glinted golden in her hair.

Maybe he could exchange Kartik’s silver nose ring for the way her lip gloss shone on her lips.

Maybe he could exchange Kartik’s rainbow cape for her green glass bangles which jangled musically on her wrists.

Maybe he could even learn to love her.

...

**Author's Note:**

> Yes you're free to curse me now.  
> I don't personally agree with the notion of pragma, as it is feels like another one of those tools used to maintain hierarchies and keep properties and stuff within the family (Every kingdom's marriages was an exercise in pragma, to increase or consolidate wealth in the kingdom.)  
> Very convenient tool for gaslighting too!  
> But I had to write it for the sake of the series I guess. I promise the next one won't be an angst fest like this one. (The finale! Wouldn't even have thought I'd come so far in this series without abandoning it.)  
> Sham marriages are a reality even today for the majority of cisgender LGB people in India. Even inter caste marriages are only a mere 5.8%, a figure that has remained unchanged over the past 40 years. So yeah, we've got a long way to go.  
> Tell me how you felt like...  
> Have a good day/night!  
> Kudos and comments make my day!  
> -Advaita


End file.
